<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>"As You Wish" by french_charlotte</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679856">"As You Wish"</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_charlotte/pseuds/french_charlotte'>french_charlotte</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Other People's Choices: Draco's Side of the Story [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Christmas nightmare, Death Eaters, Draco's first kill, Dramione - mentioned, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Good Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, No Smut, POV Draco Malfoy, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Spy Draco Malfoy, Suggestive Themes, Very dark so be warned, dark mature themes, no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:00:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,712</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679856</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_charlotte/pseuds/french_charlotte</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Between being the Order's newest spy, Voldemort taking up residence at the manor, and his father's recent escape from Azkaban, Draco has very little to look forward to during the Christmas break. His family had fallen far from the Dark Lord's good graces and Draco is doing everything in his power to be a good spy. On the best of days, that means stomaching meetings and relaying information back to the Order. On the worst of days, that means losing all elements of his innocence and abandoning his morals. </p>
<p>This is fanfiction of fanfiction. A "missing chapter" from Jewelburns's story, "The Choices We Made". Set in Draco's POV.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Rabastan Lestrange/Draco Malfoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Other People's Choices: Draco's Side of the Story [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914247</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726043">The Choices We Made</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/JewelBurns/pseuds/JewelBurns">JewelBurns</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a "missing chapter" from my sister's story, "The Choices We Made". It's a wonderfully written story that's worth a binge read with a lovely mix of genres. The original story is set in Snape and Harry's POV but with some solid Dramione and Draco time. I've got a few works for it that are exclusively in Draco's POV. As they're 'piggyback chapters' to complement the main storyline, they'll be published periodically when deemed appropriate timing. </p>
<p>!!Warning!!: This story contains dark themes, extremely dubious consent, no explicit/smut scenes but it's rather suggestive. If these sorts of things bother you, I do not recommend the second chapter. </p>
<p>Author Note: This is fanfiction and clearly breaks from canon. It would be super beneficial to read the main story. Even if you don't before reading this, definitely check it out afterwards. As well, this is the second work in my collection. Again, the first is not needed but if dark mature themes are not your cuppa tea, I highly suggest the first story of this collection.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The snow fell in an obscuring blanket, almost mesmerizingly beautiful in varying layers of whispering whites and resplendent ivories. Sitting on the stone windowsill in his bedroom, Draco stared through the dizzying field of snowflakes, wishing to see the familiar eagle owl break through the winterly sea and give him a much needed escape from the nightmares playing out around him. </p>
<p>But his owl, Apollo, wouldn’t be back for a while. He’d sent the bird out the night before around midnight. And though he was hesitant to leave the safe recluse of his bedroom, he knew Hermione was undoubtedly enjoying her Christmas. He liked to imagine her laugh as she did some ridiculous traditions like baking cookies or going ice skating. As much as it pained him to admit it, he hoped that she wouldn’t be clinging to her window that day, as desperate for his letters as he was for hers in hopes of finding a speck of holiday joy. </p>
<p>No. He hoped she was enjoying her time with her friends.  </p>
<p>In the letters that they did exchange, they tried to keep the topics happy and cheerful, but the underlying threat was there, hidden in every elegant bend of their cursive print. It was the same threat that made her hold him a little bit tighter and a little bit longer when the train pulled into King’s Cross Station and they’d have to go their separate ways. It was the same threat that made her stand up on her tiptoes and whisper to him to stay alive. </p>
<p>She couldn’t ask for anything else. Because she knew that he couldn’t promise any more than that. </p>
<p>Swinging his legs over the side of the smooth limestone alcove, Draco abandoned his vigil in the windowsill. Apollo deserved to have a good Christmas with Hermione; the bird would hardly be given rest when he arrived at the manor before the eager heir would pen up another letter to his girlfriend and hastily send it out. For now, Draco set his sour attention elsewhere and grabbed the thick mythology book he’d received as a Christmas gift from Hermione. </p>
<p>A book. At first, he’d laughed lightly at the expectedness of it. They were both renowned for their academic adroitness and intelligent facility that had once kept them in a heated rivalry. And at a cursory glance, he thought it a considerate gift from one clever student to another, the topic interesting enough. But when he got a hundred pages in, thick in the stories of Hercules’s labors, did he realize the thoughtfulness of the gift.  The eleventh labor had the famous demigod steal the golden apples from the garden of Hersperides. They were cherished apples that Juno received as a wedding gift from the goddess of the Earth, and she entrusted the apples to Hesperus’s daughters, as well as a guardian dragon. </p>
<p>The dragon had no official name, but the story had changed through the ages enough that the author provided the two languages it was originally shared in: Greek and Latin. Drakon and Draco. </p>
<p>Hermione had read through the four hundred page book - likely a lot faster than he was - and circled every mention of dragons, from the one in the garden of Hesperides to the dragon that was tossed into the heavens after battling Minerva during the Gigantomachia, the fierce war between the Giants and the Olympian Gods. </p>
<p>Maybe to some, it seemed a silly, trivial gift. He knew his namesake was a circumpolar constellation, always visible in the northern hemisphere. During First Year Astronomy, the jokes about him being in the sky had been fresh and amusing enough. But those jokes didn’t age as well as the students did, and he eventually even stopped cracking a smile at them come Third Year. By Fourth Year, there was no humor at all in it. Yes, he was named after a constellation. It was the naming tradition from his mother's side, the Black legacy, while they paid honor to the Malfoy tradition of having his father’s name become his middle name. </p>
<p>But as trivial as the book might’ve felt, it was innocent and juvenile. The simplicity of it was what made it grand, and he felt himself aching for her whenever he came across his name in the book, circled by her quill. </p>
<p>Since arriving home for the holiday, Draco had been skillfully keeping to himself.  When he first arrived and was greeted by his father, it took all of his willpower to not launch into a full tirade of questions. But he needed to pretend that he hadn’t seen him in Hogsmeade. And so instead of focusing on his feelings of betrayal, he allowed his astonishment to mask it. It would’ve been easy to step into the role of a dutiful son satisfied for the return of his stately father. It was a role that he had rehearsed for his entire life. But that act only worked as well as his fellow thespian, and his father was no longer the same actor he’d been. </p>
<p>Azkaban had changed him. </p>
<p>There was a Death Eater meeting on his first night home.  He’d lingered in the doorway with his parents, watching the others file in and find their spots at the majestic dining table the Dark Lord was already occupying. Unlike the Order, who rallied behind the shared ideals of good triumphing evil and all playing a crucial role, the Death Eaters fought for their pecking order. There was no united camaraderie or brotherhood among them. Especially not where the Malfoy’s were a concern. And as the quiet family took their seats, no longer near the head of the table but now near the foot, he ignored the jeers and satisfied smiles from his ‘colleagues’, happy that the once proud Malfoys had fallen out of favor. </p>
<p>He secretly shared in their happiness, though. The distance from Voldemort gave him a morsel of courage, enough to at least focus on the rehearsed information he was to deliver when called upon. His terror was natural; even if he wasn’t an operative, his palpable fear would be just as genuine. He was afraid of the Dark Lord before he took the Mark and was recruited as a spy, and to suddenly abandon that fear would draw more unwanted attention to himself. Fear was a potent emotion, but a confusing one. People experienced fear for different reasons. It was a weakness that, every once a while, could prove to have its agents. A useful friend, but never a good master, Draco was intent to keep fear in his arsenal. </p>
<p>He hadn’t seen Voldemort since that first night. The manor had been filled with a buzz of excitement from Death Eaters and others aligned with their cause, the halls always seemed to have some kind of traffic or activity. And the teen had made a concerted effort to circumvent any run-ins he might’ve had with them, especially his fanatical aunt. The entire top floor of the manor - an array of grand apartments and galleries that served as the ceremonial heart of the household - was taken over by the Dark Lord, and Draco had divorced himself from the thought of it still being part of his childhood home. Those rooms were the most elegant, swatched in regality and wealth, and were traditionally used by the lord and lady to receive audiences and guests. The high great chamber was the most imperative of the rooms, where vibrantly colored friezes depicted scenes of the goddess Diana on her many hunts, and actual tree trunks were plastered onto the walls to create a multidimensional splendor. There was a majestic velvet canopy that cascaded over hand carved walnut chairs from the 11th century, brought over from France by his ancestor, Armand Malfoy, when he established their reign in Wiltshire.  </p>
<p>Draco wasn’t even sure if those heirlooms were still up there. The Dark Lord seemed to go through painful measures to humiliate his father, and he wondered if their family treasures would find themselves victims. </p>
<p>If his mother hadn’t come to him the night before and reminded him that they would be taking Christmas breakfast in the dining room, he wouldn’t have even remembered the holiday. There was nothing to celebrate. Unlike in previous years, there was no three story Christmas tree in the foyer, yawning all the way up to the long gallery on the top floor. There were no decorations, no enchanted lights twinkling on evergreen garland, no gifts to exchange. </p>
<p>The only thing he had to celebrate was having his father home from Azkaban, but he wasn’t even sure how to feel about that. For whatever reason, his parents hadn’t felt it necessary to reach out and tell him of his father’s return, making him feel undeserving of the news. An afterthought. </p>
<p>Opening the mythology book and beginning to thumb through it, Draco quietly left his bedroom and began the trek towards the dining room. The family living quarters were on the second story of the manor, in the eastern wing. He’d expected to hear some kind of chatter or conversation somewhere in the halls from Death Eaters, but as he traveled through the familiar corridors of his ancestral home, barely having to look up from his book to know where he was going, he was surprised to find the manor silent. Maybe even Death Eaters wanted to enjoy the Christmas holiday. Sadistic in their plans and seduced by a genocidal maniac, they were staunch supporters to keeping traditions, if their rallying efforts were any evidence. Perhaps they still held onto old holiday traditions as well. </p>
<p>The only holiday tradition his mother mentioned honoring was their innocent pajamas exchange, where his mother would give the three of them a set of new pajamas to wear to Christmas breakfast before they’d change into their more appropriate, cultured attire.  The night before, when Draco had been in the middle of writing his letter to Hermione, his mother had quietly knocked on his bedroom door. She’d smiled weakly - he couldn’t remember the last time a smile reached her eyes - when she handed him the small bundle of clothes, reminding him that they’d be taking breakfast as a family together in the morning. </p>
<p>And in a comical reflection of his life, the pajamas his mother had selected for him were dreary and muted in color. The expensive Gaza cotton pants were a deep emerald, and its accomplice was an onyx, long-sleeved shirt, the darkness contrasting with his milky skin and making him appear more pale than usual. </p>
<p>Walking down the narrow gallery that would lead him directly to the dining room, Draco ignored the portraits of previous Malfoys wishing him a Happy Christmas. He idly turned a page in his book, enjoying the story of Daedalus and how he created the confusing Labyrinth on Crete, where the Minotaur was kept and would eventually be slain by Theseus.  His bare feet were quiet on the polished black marble floor, the imported Italian stones enchanted with a tepid heat that made it pleasant to walk on. </p>
<p>The doorway to the dining room was grand and palatial, so large that the teen didn’t have to watch where he was walking as he crossed the threshold, his grey eyes continuing to dance over the words in his book. Seeing movement out of the top of his gaze, just past the cusp of the book, he assumed it was his parents at the table. They’d always been early risers. </p>
<p>“I was thinking of going into Amesbury tomorrow for their Midwinter market,” he began casually, the pitter patter of his feet changing marginally as he crossed over the division of rooms, from onyx marble to hand scraped mahogany floor planks. “They’ve always had a good selection of crystals in the past years. I’d like to get a fire opal to add to-” </p>
<p>He stopped speaking. And stopped moving so suddenly that his feet made a small skidding sound on the floor. It was nothing short of luck that his book didn’t go flying across the room. </p>
<p>Three chairs at the table were occupied, their tenants now turned towards and staring at him. Three chairs, not two, and none of them his parents. </p>
<p>“Ah, Draco. How kind of you to join us. Unexpected and uninvited. And so appropriately dressed.” Seated at the head of the table, Voldemort had his body turned towards the teen, his face twisted in a cruel, disapproving smile. </p>
<p>Feeling his heart hammer madly in his chest, Draco snapped his gaze away from the Dark Lord to the other two at the table. On his left was Corbin Yaxley, arms leaned forward on the table and staring at him with brows raised up near his hairline, looking vexed and inconvenienced by the interruption. The older blonde was never tolerant of inefficiencies, and preferred to approach matters much like Lucius: with a disciplined hand that would pull strings on lesser brutes. Alternatively, the Death Eater seated across from Yaxley couldn’t be more different. </p>
<p>Rabastan Lestrange stared at Draco with a half-grin, the sinister look in his eyes making the teen glower back in turn. The dark-haired, goateed Death Eater had garnered a ruthless reputation through finding hobby in torturing Muggles and those not supporting the Dark Lord’s cause. He didn’t hesitate when using Unforgivables, and seemed to take as much glee as his brother when using them. He was one of the Death Eaters imprisoned in Azkaban in the aftermath of the First War, and lost thirteen years of his life there. His derangement had intensified with his chains until he was finally broken out almost a year prior with Bellatrix and the others. </p>
<p>Draco hadn’t liked him when he first met the man, and the hate only continued to intensify as their familiarity did with one another.</p>
<p>Rabastan had accompanied his father to the Department of Mysteries and suffered the mission’s wayward outcome. His freedom from his cell had been temporary. He, like his father and the other Death Eaters, had been jailed back in the despairing prison. And the teen knew the cruel man continued to hold murderous animosity towards his father, blaming him for the fantastic failure. But for Draco, Rabastan’s stare had become uncomfortable.  It was predatory and hungering, reminding him of Fenrir in a way, but sophisticated without the animalistic urges and desires. </p>
<p>He got the distinct feeling there were urges and desires but not of the same nature. </p>
<p>Wanting to be anywhere but there, Draco quickly closed his book, dipped his head down stiffly, and took a step backwards. “Apologies, my lord. I was looking for my parents. We were supposed to be meeting here.” </p>
<p>Voldemort chuckled facetiously, the sound making a chill chase down the blonde’s stiff spine. “They moved their holiday to the drawing room.  I think they were less than happy about it.” </p>
<p>Draco would’ve been ok with the floor opening up and swallowing him whole.  He was supposed to be keeping a low profile, dodging attentions that weren’t needed, and he was doing a phenomenal job at messing that up. “I’m sorry again for interrupting, my lord. I’ll be taking my leave.” </p>
<p>He managed one more step back before the icy-cold voice froze him in place, yanking away his hope for escape: “Oh, no need, Draco. Since you’re here, come join me. It is, after all, Christmas.” Voldemort addressed the other two men at the table more tersely. “Leave us.” </p>
<p>Despite the sounds of chairs scraping against wood as they were pushed back, Draco didn’t move or look up. Preparation was more than half a battle’s victory, and he was lacking his wand and not even dressed for the day. The disarming nature of it bothered him almost as much as the dark wizard at the table. The book he’d taken such joys in now hung loosely at his side, inadequate to shield him from whatever was about to happen. And not wanting to draw attention to the book, he quietly placed it on a side table when Voldemort was distracted bidding a final farewell to the Death Eaters leaving the table. </p>
<p>Rabastan reached him first, his carnivorous smile spreading across his face, pulling the edges of his trimmed, dusky goatee to match his sinisterly dark eyes. When the Death Eater was apprehended in the First War, Draco had heard how he was a sniveling, nervous man with a fidgety disposition and thin frame. But Azkaban was notorious for shattering someone and molding the pieces back together, the adhesives being despair and pain. Rabastan had emerged a changed man, similar to the teen’s own father, but their nature couldn't be more opposite. Where his father now favored a deafening silence, Rabastan became opportunistic and baleful. His sadistic qualities were no longer held behind a cultured hand. Azkaban had taught him that haughty etiquette was often a hindrance, and he’d learned to force an opportunity when it wouldn’t present itself. </p>
<p>Draco stood his ground and scowled back when Rabastan stepped in far too close, stopping himself from pushing the man away. Unarmed and physically at a disadvantage, he wouldn’t emerge from a fight victorious, nor was he willing to reduce himself to that. In the corner of his eye, he saw Voldemort watching merrily.  </p>
<p>“I’m enjoying my new home,” Rabastan taunted down at him, leaning intimately inwards, but it was his jeering, mocking words that truly bothered the teen. “The decor is a little too bright and cheerful for my taste. But with some… <em>effort… </em>I’m sure I can redecorate. How I do enjoy torturing Muggles in the halls.” </p>
<p>After the manor had become the official headquarters for their operations, rooms and chambers were granted to those who were keeping a low public profile, especially the Death Eaters broken out of Azkaban and without their own means. The rooms in the manor proper were first given to Voldemort’s most trusted; just like their placements at the dining table, every offering was done hierarchically, following their pecking order. Once the rooms in the manor were all claimed, they began looking elsewhere on the property. For Rabastan Lestrange, he was given claim to the small guest estate tucked on the far western edge of the Malfoy lands. It was a cuboid, pink marble paneled structure built in the mid-17th century for the purpose of housing guests in need of respite from the splendor of the main manor. Growing up, Draco remembered his mother enjoying the sumptuous rooms, especially the galleries with the glimmering crystal chandeliers and intricate white wood paneling with gold filigree, for her afternoon tea clubs with the other aristocratic women. And Draco, captured in the whimsical years of boyhood, had spent his afternoons running through the ornate geometric flowerbeds, watching the petals get trampled in his wake only to regrow again by magic. </p>
<p>It was yet another aspect of his family’s honor that was ripped from them. And to think that his mother’s once prized estate hall was now housing this shred of a man… </p>
<p>Rabastan leaned in close, his foul breath tickling the shell of his ear. When he spoke, it was hardly a whisper. Everyone in the room heard him: “The estate isn’t complete without a Malfoy. You should come by sometime. I could use the company.” </p>
<p>Humiliated and angry, Draco shoved the man roughly against his front. “Do not touch me!” </p>
<p>But Rabastan couldn’t look more pleased at the reaction, even as he righted his disheveled black vest. “So <em>fiesty</em>. Your father would be so <em>proud </em>of-”</p>
<p>“Enough,” Yaxley interrupted with a warning growl as he pointedly stepped between the taunting Lestrange and glaring teen, knowing full well the entire exchange had a captivated audience still sitting at the table. “Leave him, Lestrange.” </p>
<p>Though he didn’t directly level any words Draco’s way, the teen didn’t miss the brisk glance, Yaxley’s tired eyes telling him to behave and abandon his restive mood. In the absence of his father, Yaxley was one of the only Death Eaters who seemed capable of shrewd logic, not one to allow madness cloud judgment. When Draco was unable to kill during his initiation and was subject to punishment, Yaxley had been the one to walk beside him afterwards, saying nothing about the way the teen’s spent body leaned against him. And when he did speak, the Scot gave him crude words of advice: <em>‘These guys will tell you killing is an art.  It’s not.  Killing is a messy thing. You do what you have to in order to meet a goal, Draco. Make bodies, not art.’</em></p>
<p>Feeling heat swarming over his pale cheeks, Draco said nothing and didn’t move as Yaxley and Lestrange filed out.  The lascivious looks and crude mocks from Lestrange just added to the vault of humiliation their family was subject to. It wasn’t like that a year ago. A year ago, had Lestrange - or anyone, for that matter - spoken or treated him with such salaciousness, his parents would’ve hexed him left and right. Their pride had been a sterling point to their identities: his father was a wealthy man in mind and body and one of Voldemort’s most trusted lieutenants, and his mother reeked of aristocratic glory.  All of that changed after the botched mission and the prophecy. Now they were favorite subjects of shame and degradation by his father’s colleagues that had once been belittled by the arrogant Malfoy. They took pleasure in pointing that out at every opportunity. </p>
<p>And Draco, for his part, had begun to see the house of cards he was raised in, so flimsy and built on false ideals. But unlike his parents, he was no longer under the disillusions of a mad man. He wouldn’t sit under it and watch it all collapse on him. He’d made his decision. </p>
<p>Soft laughter brought Draco back to the present, making him look over at the robed man with snake-like features amused at his expense. “Come, Draco. Sit.” </p>
<p>He wanted to refuse. He wanted to run from the dining hall, back to the safety of his room and not come out until it was time to return to Hogwarts. He wanted the holiday - this nightmare - to be over. But it was only just beginning. </p>
<p>Welcoming a cold numbness to descend on his mind and body, the blonde silently obeyed, crossing the gap and wordlessly easing himself in the chair on the Dark Lord’s right. He’d learned quickly that Death Eaters were expected to place their forearms on the table; it was a show of good faith, that they weren’t hiding a wand or would reach for one in the event of a disagreement. Some followed the tradition while others, like him and his parents, typically did not. Proper table manners dictated otherwise. </p>
<p>Feeling the older man’s stare roam over his face and upper body, Draco kept his hands in tight fists under the table. His nails embedded themselves in the soft skin on his palms, making a dull ache run up his forearms. But he didn’t let up on it. In the morning, there would be a field of tiny crescent cuts. </p>
<p>“I get the feeling that you're avoiding me, Draco. For being housemates, I have not seen you since you’ve come home from school. In fact, I get the feeling that your entire family loathes my presence here.” </p>
<p>“Of course not, my lord,” he lied lamely. “We are honored.” </p>
<p>“Honored? I would not guess that from your father’s ghostly visage roaming the halls like a phantom and your mother creeping about. And you… I have not seen you once.  Is that how the proud <em>Malfoys</em> show how <em>honored</em> they are?”</p>
<p>Draco turned quiet for a few seconds, digesting what was said and quickly running through the various directions the conversation could go. With a woodening breath, he turned to face the older wizard. “We have never been a particularly… sprightly family, my lord.” </p>
<p>“No, you haven’t, have you?” The sickly aberrant man continued to stare at him, a crimson gaze holding his grey eyes and refusing to allow them to move. “I am in something of a predicament with Rabastan. You see, he is one of my most trusted but he followed the ill-conceived plans of your idiot father that led him faster to Azkaban than any moments of glory. It was my mistake for trusting your father with that mission.” </p>
<p>Draco stayed silent and focused on the pain in his palms to keep his mind guarded. </p>
<p>Voldemort continued, his hissing voice slathered in viscous delight. “As you know, I’ve broken him - and your foolish parent - out of Azkaban, but I imagine he continues to hold a grudge for the poor leadership that led him there. Keeping such a faithful servant unhappy would not be in my favor, don’t you agree?” </p>
<p>A sick feeling began to coil in the teen’s stomach much like the snake sleeping at the evil wizard’s feet, wrapped around the legs of the chair that used to be his father’s.  “Yes, my lord.” </p>
<p>“Rabastan has clearly expressed his desires for you. Basal desires, really, that I cannot determine if they are… genuine or an element of revenge against your father.  Not that I particularly care.  Your father’s failure still displeases me.” He paused for a moment as if to consider that, the corners of his grotesque mouth slowly pulling back into the start of a wolfish smile, showing off a revolting line of discolored, jagged teeth. “Ah, then there is merit in his desire. Yes, it serves a dual purpose. And as you’re involved in this, you are of course in agreement?” </p>
<p>Draco looked down at the table. It was polished, the glossy surface reflecting his waxen features back to him.  The table should’ve been filled with all of the delicious platters that were only served on Christmas: Calf’s head consommé garnished with truffle quenelles, crumbed fried fillets of sole stuffed with tarragon butter, a gracious platter of french plums and apples and apricots, sliced cold hams in aspic jelly, assorted pastries, and many others.  He should’ve been sipping centuries old wine imported from Southern France and watching his father complain about his mother’s choice of pajamas and how they were hardly appropriate attire for the table. It was the same grousing complaint he’d level each and every year, rehearsed and said out of tradition than actual annoyance. And his mother would smile behind her crystal flute, as proud and polished as the silverware. It was a day when the stiffness that normally domineered their lives was relaxed, when they could let loose and act unseemly with sound reason. It was a day when he felt innocent and joy, but that joy was now taken from him. </p>
<p>And, apparently, so was his innocence. </p>
<p>“If that is your wish, my lord,” he mumbled in a mechanical voice, maintaining his perfectly manicured veil over his outward emotions and thoughts. </p>
<p>“It is!” The exaggerated, over exuberant lilt in the older man’s voice was just another blade that twisted into the teen’s gut. “You’ll go to his estate tomorrow. On Boxing Day, even. How appropriate.” </p>
<p>Under the table, the skin on his palms broke, filling his nails with blood. “It’s not his estate.” </p>
<p>The correction came as a surprise for not just the teen who said it and now looked strictly down at his lap, but the Dark Lord who turned quiet for several uncomfortable seconds, his stare only focused on the boy. “Pride is a dangerous thing, Draco. Your father is learning that the hard way. You come from a proud, unblemished bloodline, but that pride will not keep you safe. Any failures or... <em>treachery</em>... that you make will be punished, with or without that pride.” </p>
<p>Treachery. He was found out; he was sure of it. Draco’s heart skipped a beat, filling him with a cold fear that betrayed his calm mind. </p>
<p>Time seemed to stop as Voldemort slowly leaned in towards him, scraping the legs of his chair across the floor and forcing his sleeping pet to slither out of the way. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man’s midnight robes shift, a skeleton-like hand slipping into their folds, and drawing out the deranged wand as white as bone. His eyes closed briefly when he felt the cold wood press against his chin, but opened them when the wand turned his face towards the older man’s.</p>
<p>“I can taste your fear, Draco.” </p>
<p>The teen swallowed repeatedly, trying to hold himself together. Even in the face of his undoing and discovery of being an operative, he wouldn’t let any other vital information slip. If he were lucky, his death would be fast, painless, and clean, and his parents would be saved from the heartbreak of having to put his body back together on Christmas. “I do not wish to die, my lord.” </p>
<p>But to his surprise, the wand dropped from his chin as Voldemort laughed. It wasn’t a mocking laugh, but something more genuine, as if finding his fear of death a great point of amusement. “You will not die, Draco. Rabastan may not be pleasant but he will not kill you.” </p>
<p>It clicked then -- he wasn’t found out as a spy. His fear had been misunderstood. </p>
<p>It took every second of training with Snape for the blonde to keep his utter relief hidden beneath that explosive, confounding plume of fear. It was so concentrated and thick that the Dark Lord hadn’t thought to question its origin, assuming it was caused from his newly assigned ‘task’. And while Draco wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of Rabastan, he found himself incredibly thankful towards the man for providing a perfect excuse for his nerves. </p>
<p>“Besides,” Voldemort leaned back in his chair and placed a hand down near his side to affectionately scritch Nagini’s diamond-shaped head. “Your parents are no longer adequate sources of tutelage for you. Rabastan is. Though some see his methods as sadistic, I find them effective. Much more effective than your father’s.” </p>
<p>Draco swallowed a few times, though he wasn’t sure if he was fighting the rise of sickened bile or a breath of relief. But ever his father’s son, he was diluting the vileness of the situation with a sieve, finding the specks of advantage that he could use. “Do you not find it unsatisfactory that Rabastan wasn’t able to evade capture, my lord? My father may have been leading the mission but Rabastan isn’t mindless. If there’s any question on who should be giving tutelage and training, maybe that’s best to Death Eaters who can show innovation under pressure and not just blind loyalty.” </p>
<p>The lack of immediate agreeableness from the blonde seemed to surprise the older wizard for a half second, during which Draco was certain he’d stopped breathing all together in a wash of panic. But Voldemort broke the short trance with a mere tilt of his head. “A mere teenage boy telling me how to manage my own. How <em>delightful</em>.” His disfigured face twisted into a low laugh. “Please, Draco, in all of your - sixteen, is it? - sixteen years of wisdom and experience, tell me more of my faults as a leader.” </p>
<p>The teen’s mouth went dry. “I-I didn’t mean-”</p>
<p>“-I know very well what you meant. But the eyes of youth have a way of seeing the world that hardened men cannot.” The words weren’t genuine; they were caressed in a stream of disdain and sarcasm. “Unjaded, uncynical, <em>inexperienced. </em> In all the years of your pathetic life, the first quarter of which were spent on your mother’s teat, what experience in leadership do you have to share, Draco?” </p>
<p><em>I didn’t lead a failed war campaign</em>.</p>
<p>He saw their proverbial battle stretched out linearly in his mind, navigating it much like his father used to have him navigate the hedge maze in their garden. Lucius would hex him with a blinding spell, sometimes during twilight when the sun’s glare would play tricks on him, and leave him in the middle to find his way out. As a child, he hated and feared it, especially when he was still fighting to remember his way out and spent hours sobbing at the top of his lungs only to be ignored. Even when night fell and the nocturnal songs from the nightingales emerged, his parents still didn’t step forward to help him. And it was sometime after midnight, his arms outstretched in front of him, hands scratched and bloodied from the brush, that he stumbled out to find his father waiting for him. </p>
<p>As he aged and grew, so did the maze, his father expanding it year after year. After Draco had begun to memorize its patterns, Lucius would magically change it, keeping the maze’s puzzle in a constant state of flux. When he was twelve, he stopped fearing it. And when he turned fifteen, he’d come to appreciate the challenge it presented, a sound representation of the world and how to navigate its complexities with a calm mind. </p>
<p>He remembered his father placing his own palm flat against his chest at the start of each exercise: <em>“Take three deep breaths, Draco. One, clear your thoughts. Two, do not panic. Three, map out everything in your mind</em>.” </p>
<p>And though his father wasn’t with him at the table, Draco felt the hand against his chest as he took three deep breaths before speaking. “Rabastan is weak - he was blindly following orders. But blind loyalty is a fallacy. Anything blind will eventually fall into a pit or hit a wall.” He swallowed before quickly tacking on, “....my lord.” </p>
<p>Voldemort stared at him in cold consideration. But the look lasted too long for cursory dismissiveness. He was genuinely thinking, and that scared the teen. “What greater loyalty is there, <em>boy</em>, beyond blind loyalty? You will go to <em>Rabastan’s</em> estate tomorrow not because you want to but because you are blindly, utterly devoted to <em>me</em>. Because you are <em>mine</em>.” His bony hand shot out from his robes at such a speed that Draco didn’t have time to fully jerk away before it reached beneath the table, grabbed his left wrist, and slammed it against the table. The older wizard callously clawed down the boy’s sleeve, not caring for the teen’s hiss of pain as his nails left angry red lines down the column of ivory skin. </p>
<p>The claws shifted, grinding and scraping along his tattooed forearm as Voldemort squeezed violently. “Do not forget that, <em>boy</em>,” his incensed words came out in a vicious hiss. “And if your loyalties are anything but blind, then say so now and we will correct this.” </p>
<p>But Draco spoke evenly, even as a sharp nail pressed into his forearm, piercing the skin and making a thin trail of red leak down the Mark. “My loyalties are to the idea of a purified wizarding world and you, my lord.” He swallowed. “In that order.” </p>
<p>The hand on his forearm instantly released and instead shot up towards his face, bloodied fingers and claws grabbing his chin in a crushing grip. It took everything in Draco not to give a small gasp as he was yanked forward, inches away from the grotesque, snake-like face. </p>
<p>Voldemort’s voice came out low and deadly. “And Rabastan?” </p>
<p>The boy drew in rapid breaths. “He <em>blindly</em> followed a poorly hatched plan, my lord. You reward him for his dimness and lack of capacity when you should be punishing him just as much as my father. Rabastan did <em>nothing</em> because he can’t do anything on his own, but you see that deficiency as blind loyalty. He is weak.” </p>
<p>For a few fragile seconds, the world stopped spinning and Draco would swear neither one of them breathed. Grey eyes were anchored by angry crimson. And in those seconds, he was positive that what he said had made sense to the older wizard, that he had gotten through to him, that he managed to drip a small amount of  poison in the well of trust he had for his followers. </p>
<p>But it was acceptance of his word what cemented his punishment. Voldemort didn’t want honesty. Not when it challenged his followers’ fanatical devotion. </p>
<p>A strong surge of fury shadowed over the older wizard’s face as he squeezed the boy’s chin tighter, so tight there would be a battery of bruises the next day. “I suppose you will find out tomorrow just how <em>weak</em> he is, Draco. Now get out of my sight.” </p>
<p>The moment he was released, Draco was on his feet, muttering a half-hearted ‘my lord’. His fear came back in full force, overwhelming and making him almost race to the door in a starving desire to flee the room. </p>
<p>Flee the room. The manor. Wiltshire. He wanted to go back to Hogwarts. To be with Hermione. To see her smile and hear her laugh again. To have an actual Christmas. Instead he readjusted his mask and was resolved to take on yet another burden, something that he didn’t want, all for the good of the Order and Harry’s survival. </p>
<p>And though he felt Voldemort’s angry stare digging into his back, irate at his words and the weakness they unveiled, Draco kept his chin high and proud as he left. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>!!Warning!!: This is where things get pretty dark. If the tags bother you, please don't read this. There is no smut/explicit scenes but it's got the makings for everything in between and is highly suggestive.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>During the winter, Draco missed the peacocks.</p>
<p>Growing up, his father found every outlet to flaunt their wealth and prosperity, such as lavish attire and extravagant parties, and Lucius enjoyed finding peculiar Indian peacocks to roam the grounds. From the rare ablino variety to the exotic violet peacocks, they had cost his father a significant amount. And Lucius was never one for animals; he forbade his son from having any household pets and lectured him when he began to create attachments to the family’s owls. ‘<em>They’re no better than house elves, Draco!</em>’’ his father had bellowed at him, all the while putting meticulous effort in building the peacock habitats. </p>
<p>The lush, pompous birds happily patrolled the gardens and grounds during the balmier months in spring and summer. But once fall came, they started to favor their habitats more and more until, eventually, they refused to leave them entirely in the winter. Not that Draco could blame them -- if he had his way, he would’ve remained in the safe confines of his bedroom, too. Instead, he was standing in a mockingly bright kitchen, naked, making tea. </p>
<p>The western guest house was a sprawling, impressive estate with four facades layered in light pink marble paneling. Designed in the early to mid-18th century, the architecture favored a hybrid of Rococo and Neoclassical styles, including sobering tall ceilings, refined marble pilasters, and complex carved paneling painted in pastels and golds. It captured the pure elegance and sophistication of the era it was designed, and the Malfoys took significant pride in maintaining its cultivated caliber. </p>
<p>Until recently, it had been a point of pride for the Malfoy matriarchs, usually reserved for hosting afternoon teas and games with the other aristocratic women. Now, it was host to Rabastan Lestrange, the deranged Death Eater who took as much of a sadistic interest in Draco as he did with torturing and maiming muggles.  </p>
<p>Opening one of the periwinkle cupboards, the insides adorned with chalk white stenciled shapes to exaggerate their craftsmanship, Draco quickly grabbed two teacups. The kitchen was immensely sized with a white tiled floor occasionally interrupted by black diamonds. Shutters, painted periwinkle to match the cupboards, were already drawn open, welcoming the day’s blithe, cheery light. It was still early morning and he was already dreading what his day would consist of. </p>
<p>Christmas was two days ago, during which he forced himself to stomach a cold breakfast with his parents and give them a succinct summary of his morning with Voldemort and Rabastan.  The only advantage to his father’s newfound broken disposition was his ability to expertly hide his shame, for the older Malfoy said nothing. He didn’t need to for Draco to suffer the drowning waves of humiliation; he saw the shattered pride in his father’s stormy eyes. Their family had fallen, and he was taking the severe punishments. And yet, in divine comedy on the cosmic scale, it was also him that was secretly trying to crawl out of the grave his father had dug. </p>
<p>With a quick flick of his wand, the water in the kettle boiled, letting loose a swaying pillar of steam from its curved spout. Like its matching teacups on the opal countertop, the kettle was made of porcelain with gold redcurrant motifs painted on pigmented backgrounds of rich turquoise blue. They were as old as the antiquated estate, family heirlooms that he always assumed to inherit at some point in his life and eventually allow his wife to take over much like his own mother did. He imagined one day watching her sip from their elegant golden rims with her friends, laughing over something innocent and inane. </p>
<p>That was a good fantasy. It was better than the reality he was living. </p>
<p>After steeping the rich tea - an oriental import grown at high altitudes that gave off strong aromas of peaches and jasmine - Draco stowed his wand under his arm and grabbed the two cups by their matching saucers. He considered levitating the cups but didn’t trust his concentration to maintain the spell out of the kitchen, up the circling staircase, and into the grand bedroom tucked at the far end of the third floor.  On any other day, he would’ve happily taken on the challenge with raving success. But a sharp pain shot through his body, originating from his ravaged core, with every step he took. He wasn’t sure if that pain was purely physical or mental anymore. </p>
<p>Pain stopped really bothering him around the time the blood did. And by that morning, when he managed to untangle himself from Rabastan’s suffocating embrace, he didn’t so much care for his modesty and had stepped over his trousers and boxers on his way to the lavatory. The garments continued to remain untouched when he re-emerged and Rabastan asked for tea, which he grudgingly complied with out of a shared desire for the drink and wanting to gain needed space. </p>
<p>He thought of the Order. Of his purpose. Of Snape’s warning advice that he would be forced to do vile things. They’d spoke of murder and torture in disturbing lengths, revisiting the potion masters own nightmares as a Death Eaters. But Draco wasn’t prepared for this. </p>
<p>Leaving the kitchen through a narrow passage that ran under the stairs, Draco entered into the grand foyer, the heart and largest room in the residence that greeted guests with an immediate impression of awe. The floor was a checker pattern of white and viridian marble, infused with the stone’s natural cobwebbing feature to give it a multidimensional appeal. The opulent staircase wrapped around the rectangular room and stretched all the way up to the third floor, crafted from beautiful iron and gold-flecked banisters glimmering under the morning sun. The foyer - and much of the entire estate - was made from perfectly mortared limestone and marble of calming beige and white hues, the architecture so precise that it gave the illusion of the room being carved from one solid piece of stone. </p>
<p>Draco’s bare feet made a surprising amount of noise on the staircase as he climbed it, maintaining a slow pace to limit spills and grant his mind sufficient time to have much needed respite. Since leaving the manor proper per the Dark Lord’s order - a perverse order to further degrade their family - the blonde hadn’t been able to send letters back to Hermione. Granted, he’d only arrived the previous morning but he knew she would’ve sent a letter back already. And per his nature, he would’ve replied back in rapid fire if he were able to. With Rabastan, he doubted he’d be able to covertly write and send the letter without making the older man question what he was doing.  He made a point to bring up to Rabastan that he was needed back in the manor for some family business, and would make a dedicated trip to his bedroom to pen up a response to his girlfriend. </p>
<p>But he made every effort <em>not</em> to think of Hermione when he was with Rabastan. He wouldn’t debase her image for his selfish escape. </p>
<p>Despite the estate being large - three floors filled with private bedrooms and salons, dressing rooms, dining rooms, and kitchens - it was only occupied by Rabastan. At first, Draco bristled at the idea of his family’s residence being given over to the fiendish prat, but as he now traversed the ornate halls and passed under polished crystal chandeliers, he was infinitely thankful. </p>
<p>As much as he loathed Rabastan and the humiliation he was forced to endure, he found a silver lining in the hellish storm: he was able to keep distance from the manor and Voldemort without being too far from his family. It was the perfect excuse. And like the rest of his career as a Death Eater, he simply donned a different mask and costume, inwardly rehearsed how he’d need to act to maintain it, and followed through the motions. It wasn’t his choice by a long shot but he found the ability to keep his head above the waves by focusing on the dock in the distance; if he could only do that, he could get through this small batch of inclement weather. By doing so, he was still a spy and in control. By doing so, he wasn’t a victim. </p>
<p>Navigating the halls easy enough, Draco reached the grand twin doors to the master bedroom. They were slightly ajar, just as he left them. Like the rest of the estate, the doors embraced the Neoclassical aesthetics with chiseled white molding weaved by intricate gilded vines. The gold wasn’t mere paint -- it was real. </p>
<p>He cavalierly kicked the bottom of one of the doors to enter the room. </p>
<p>The grand bedroom was effervescent and bright with luminous colors of uplighting hues. The tall walls were adorned in panels of blanched white with intricate hand-carved molding designs of daisies and ivy and cursive bends and twists. There were no hard intersections in the room; complex layers of crown molding created the division between the vaulted ceiling and walls, and pilasters were affixed at the points the walls met. It created a whirling illusion of every element flowing into the next. The long wall facing the north facade was filled with tall windows, the glass encased in the same frieze that created the room. Drapes with a light blue background and pastel pink roses framed the windows, and the panels that would normally stay closed over the windows during the night were open. Thanks to thick enchantments, though, none of the winterly winds invaded the home. Though they could drink in the unabashed views of the geometric gardens that lay in front of the estate, they weren’t subject to the cold elements. </p>
<p>A deep grey fireplace carved from marble sat along a shorter wall, with a large mirror framed in pure gold hanging directly above it. And across from that was the object of Draco’s bane: the bed. </p>
<p>It was a four-poster with fine brocade fabrics of light blue and embroidered silver hanging from the structure in thick drapes. The bed itself was imported from his ancestor’s aristocratic household in France and maintained its integrity over the years. A sea of pillows and heavy down blankets covered the surface, almost obscuring the man laying among them as if he owned the estate for himself. </p>
<p>He didn’t. Draco refused to let him believe it. </p>
<p>After placing his wand on a side table, the teen quickly approached the bed, where Rabastan was already sitting propped up by the pillows with a marauding smile on his face. The look made the teen want to throw the scolding drink over the older man’s smooth features, looks that were probably considered handsome at some point but were now soiled by his misdeeds. </p>
<p>He swallowed back the violent temptation, letting it fall into the nest of other murderous ideas for Rabastan’s demise. “Here.” </p>
<p>Reaching for the offered cup and saucer, Rabastan glanced into the murky water with a toying frown. “What? No milk for the tea?” </p>
<p>Draco shoved it more forcefully into his hands, hearing the high pitched clink of the centuries old china voice their own form of disdain for the question. “Either take your tea properly or get it yourself next time. I’m your calamite, not your bloody servant.” </p>
<p>Finding amusement in the blonde’s constant stream of prideful arrogance, Rabastan chuckled heartily as he swung his legs out of bed to stand. Draco had abandoned the bed, not wanting to go anywhere near it after what had transpired there, and instead chose to stand shamelessly naked beside one of the windows. The thick paneling with curled gold vines that served as shutters for the windows was drawn open, granting him a sweeping view of the manor and manicured grounds. </p>
<p>Placing his cup on a dresser beside him, Draco watched the snowflakes fall sparsely from the weeping sky. The torrential downpour was heavy at night, tapering off when the sun crept along the horizon, as if following the couple’s own nocturnal tempo.The grasses and gardens were covered in a thin white blanket, a few of the enchanted flowerbeds still managing to peak out. </p>
<p>Hearing Rabastan place his own cup down and approach from behind, he tried to think of something else; of the Order and his purpose. He tried to think of the sacrifices each of them made all for the good of their mission, for that hopeful ambition they could all rally behind. If he needed another reason to stay loyal to the Order, Rabastan was providing a perfect one. He wouldn’t fight for a side that would only deliver a world ripe with servitude and debasement. He wouldn’t fight for his own slavery. </p>
<p>His discomfort was temporary; that’s what he told himself. He wasn’t home often and would be back to the safety of Hogwarts soon enough, where he could brandish a polished exterior impervious to slights against his pride. At Hogwarts, he was in control. How stupid he was to assume that control would seamlessly transfer over to his career as a Death Eater, where he inherited his father’s disgraced reputation. </p>
<p>Among the Slytherins at school, he was a god. But among the Death Eaters, he was nothing. </p>
<p>Draco closed his eyes and groaned at the rough hands on his hips, the roaming fingers somehow finding the splatter of bruises painted on the previous day and night. But it made sense Rabastan knew where they were - he was the artist. “How is your stamina this good? Merlin, you’re more than twice my age.  You took a potion, didn’t you?” </p>
<p>The body behind him didn’t seem to mind the age comment or the snapping tone, instead snickering slowly.  “Only two years younger than your father. Though he’s looking older and older these days. Poor Lucius.” </p>
<p>As chapped lips pressed into the milky curve of his bare shoulder, it took every inch of Draco not to throw Rabastan from the third story landing.  But he didn’t abandon the idea all together -- just added it to the list of possible murder options. “I’m tired,” he sharply retorted, turning his chin to look over the shoulder getting lavished in attention and kisses. “And sore. I want a moment to myself. And for fuck’s sake, don’t bring up my parent while you’re trying to shag me.” </p>
<p>“That pride will break eventually. Maybe when it does, you’ll actually start enjoying yourself.” </p>
<p>Draco closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the gilt molding and took a deep breath as the body behind him moved to his side. Rabastan was still close, but had granted the teen his request for space. “Doubtful. I wasn’t ordered to enjoy myself.” </p>
<p>“You weren’t ordered <em>not</em> to enjoy yourself, either.” </p>
<p>“You’re not quite my type -- I know, shocking to hear.” </p>
<p>Calloused fingers that weren’t his own dove in and out of his white-blonde hair, the strands hanging limply over his forehead messily. It was no longer combed with each strand strategically placed.  The once perfectly groomed halo had been shattered when he arrived at the estate, and he never went through the effort to repair it. “Your hair’s so messy now. I like it better when you style it.” </p>
<p>Opening his eyes, Draco stared out the window at the manor. He begged it to do something distracting. “That’s precisely why I <em>won’t</em> style it.” In fact, he wondered if he’d ever style it again. He was sure Hermione would still find him attractive, maybe even more so considering the company she kept. </p>
<p>With dwindling patience, Rabastan abandoned his post next to the window, sauntering beside the blonde and wrapping a possessive arm around his midsection. “Then let’s mess it up more. Come back to bed.” </p>
<p>With a heavy sigh, just as Draco was about to accept his fate, movement in the manor’s gardens made him stiffen and grab at the arm trying to yank him back. “Wait -- who’s that?” </p>
<p>An impatient growl came seconds before the older man’s body was flush against his, leaning casually over his shoulder to glance out the window in the direction Draco pointed. “Who? Oh. Some local healer that’s been staying at the manor.  Probably just curing whatever illness the Dark Lord’s gotten. Supposedly she specializes in muggle diseases.” </p>
<p>Blinking rapidly as his breaths came in more panicky, Draco was too surprised to fight back against the arm that guided him to the bed. Voldemort was sick, and this middle-aged looking woman traveling through their gardens with a Death Eater escort was hired to do something about it. The Dark Lord didn’t get sick; not anymore than he ate and slept. Those basic living functions were reserved for men of human nature with morals and ideals and emotions capable of mercy. They weren’t found among a fanatical madman with cultish manipulations and brutal measures. It was a crack - a vulnerability - against the perfect sadistic, grisly image Voldemort primed over the course of his reign.  </p>
<p>After seeing Harry suffer from a muggle disease, Draco knew firsthand how wretched it could be. It was a silent killer, indiscriminately choosing its victims with devastating effects. Voldemort was powerful. But not powerful enough to not need outside help from a healer. </p>
<p>“Rabastan…” He began thoughtfully as he let the other Death Eater pull him to his lap, a pale knee planted on either side of the older wizard. Ever in control, though, the teen made sure to keep himself on the man’s legs and hold his desire hostage. “Do the other Death Eaters not question his health? He’s been sick for a while, hasn’t he?” </p>
<p>Rabastan didn’t seem to mind what he saw as harmless conversation. Not while he was clearly enjoying the view. “I reckon he has. I haven’t given it much thought, and neither should you.”</p>
<p>“But he <em>isn’t</em> well, is he?” Draco turned quiet for a moment, taking in Rabastan’s flushed cheeks and dilated eyes, his desires blatant to the world. “I was thinking… if something were to happen to him, what would happen to us? Even if he’s just…not well enough for orders, he must have a second in command. Who is that?”</p>
<p>The question was expertly tossed and immediately hit its mark. Rabastan blinked and furrowed his brows in thought. “Used to be your father. Everyone knew Lucius was his XO. But the years weren’t mighty kind to him. Obviously.” It was meant to be yet another slam to their pride, but it was only half-hearted, the Death Eater still pondering the question. “My brother. It’d go to my brother.”</p>
<p>Draco didn’t stop his astonishment from spilling across his face, but for different reasons than his partner thought. “Rodolphus? Your brother?”</p>
<p>“Surprised, little Malfoy?” Rabastan briefly grazed his fingertips over the blonde’s lithe shoulders in a compelling show of possession. “Which means that I’d be Rodolphus’s XO. I reckon then you can consider me the Dark Lord’s first lieutenant even now.”</p>
<p>The surprise that spilled from Draco was pure and genuine; he didn’t even have to embellish it. Death Eaters truly were a disorganized mess, snapping at each other at every opportunity to find glory and power. But for someone like Rabastan Lestrange to over exaggerate his worth...There were so many sarcastic comments he could’ve used then. It really was a tragedy that he kept playing a role. </p>
<p>“What about Yaxley or Dolohov?” He simply asked. “Or my aunt? The Dark Lord seems to favor my aunt quite a bit.”</p>
<p>A darkness flashed in the older Death Eater’s gaze, and Draco felt the body beneath him tense. “No. Not those two. They don’t have the grit that we do. As for your aunt…” the defensiveness lessened. “Even if it was her, she’s married to my brother and so I’d still get an honored status.”</p>
<p>Draco nodded slowly. “On that logic, you’d be at the same status as my father then. Brother-in-law, I mean.”</p>
<p>The line of thinking took a few seconds longer than the teen gave the man credit for. But when it did happen, a wash of annoyance and frustrations eclipsed the once keen features. It lasted for only a moment, but a moment was all Draco was asking for. Much like he did before, the small drop of poison was dripped in the cistern, strong enough to eventually breed dissonance and further splice relations among their ranks. </p>
<p>“I was just thinking that… well, we haven’t had any raids in a while. I haven’t been summoned from school for some time,” the blonde quickly said with a casual shrug of a shoulder, eager to keep attention off the topic and himself. The movement rustled the older man, striking heat back into his lower regions and making the desirous look return. </p>
<p>“Don’t get too comfortable,” Rabastan snickered in the lustful tune he favored when initiating their time together. “Things are about to get <em>really</em> exciting around here.” </p>
<p>Draco stared down at him in a half-lidded, deadpanned expression. “Finally realize you’re lackluster in bed, do you? At least you’re honest with yourself.” </p>
<p>The hands were back - large, calloused, and greedy - and explored the ivory torso before roughly grabbing at his hips and giving him a sharp yank forward. Forced to abandon his safe distance, Draco rumbled a sound of displeasure at where he ended up. But he was in control, he told himself, continuing to dilute the situation to find the potent elements he could turn advantageous. A pleased, eager look pinched on Rabastan’s face for a few seconds, clearly thinking he’d gotten the upperhand, before suddenly going slack when the blonde pressed himself up on his knees a bit, denying the man. </p>
<p>“What’s going to happen that’s so exciting?” </p>
<p>The older wizard gave an impatient growl, but he was quick to answer. “A raid in a few days on New Years Eve. It’s what Yaxley and I were talking to the Dark Lord about,” he boasted. “A late Christmas present for us all, I reckon.” </p>
<p>The silver eyes narrowed dubiously on the Death Eater. “<em>You</em> were planning it? You? You can hardly stay out of Azkaban for more than ten seconds. Why would the Dark Lord trust you?” </p>
<p>The insult didn’t quite have the effect the teen was hoping. “Because I’m loyal,” Rabastan replied like it was the most obvious answer.  “You should feel honored that someone like me has taken interest in you. And because I find you so enjoyable, I’ll even go so far as to help you during the raid. I can’t let my investment perish, can I?” </p>
<p>Draco felt his heart thunder in his chest. “Help me? I don’t need your bloody help.” </p>
<p>A deep laugh chortled out of the older man’s throat as he reached up, long fingers framing the sharp angles of the teen’s face. Maybe in a different life, the older Death Eater was a gracious lover; at the very least, he seemed to pick up when the blonde’s breath would hitch as pleasure reached him and would focus on repeating whatever ministrations had brought it on. And every so often, Draco would get a glimpse of compassion and care in his touch, a phantom of what the man used to be before Voldemort and Azkaban broke him. </p>
<p>“That fucking Malfoy pride. Even after all of your humiliation - your father’s beloved home taken over, his heir taken to bed - you <em>still</em> keep that pride.” The fingers curled around his jaw, thumb pressing into his cheek, in a grip that Draco could only describe as desperate and troubled. And the look in Rabastan’s dark eyes was no longer illuminated with pure lust; there were specks of concern and despondency. “I’m not offering to help to humiliate you further, Draco. I’m offering to keep you <em>alive. </em>Everyone remembers your initiation and your surprising lack of kills on Privet Drive.  You are Lucius Malfoy’s son, the man who was once the Dark Lord’s second-in-command. And you haven’t killed once.” </p>
<p>A sickness began to swarm in Draco’s stomach, worse than anything he’d experienced in the past day. “I-I was thinking-” </p>
<p>“-Stop thinking. That’s your problem.  These people? These <em>Muggles</em> and Mudbloods… they don’t deserve your mercy. Hells, they don’t even deserve the Killing Curse. That’s fast and painless. They should be tortured slowly, feel their lifesource fading away with every second.” </p>
<p>Draco looked away. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: that his lack of killing had drawn attention, or Rabastan’s obvious arousal at talking about it. </p>
<p>He was surprised when he was shifted back down the man’s legs as Rabastan sat up, back propped against the elaborate headboard. “Draco…”  The concerned tone made the teen look back at him. “Your first kill will be your hardest, but after that, it becomes much easier. Fun, even. But remember -- those people will die either from your wand or anothers. They are walking, breathing corpses. Do you understand me? <em>Walking, breathing corpses</em>.  They are already dead. You just get to decide whether they’ll suffer or not beforehand.” </p>
<p>The truth in Rabastan’s words cut a hole in Draco’s heart, the honesty filling him with remorse and grief for what he’d have to do. The last shred of innocence he had left would be taken. “But my intent…” </p>
<p>“-Will still be there. Magic doesn’t care for your rationale so long as there’s the most basic of intent. That’s what I mean to stop thinking so bloody hard on it. Just <em>act</em>. And for all that is holy, do not show <em>any</em> emotion afterwards. You’ve already got the ramble talking about how you don’t have the stomach your father has.” </p>
<p>Leaning back on his bent legs, Draco tried to claw for the numbness of a blank, guarded mind. But even that couldn’t consolidate his despair. His voice came out small. Quiet. Desperate. “You’ll help me?” </p>
<p>The pleased smile that spread over Rabastan’s face was more ravenous and raptorial than ever before. “Of course. I’m taking great enjoyment in giving you your firsts. I wouldn’t miss this opportunity. And afterwards, we’ll come back here to celebrate and I’ll give you the distractions you’ll need.” </p>
<p>And four days from then, when clocks chimed midnight and explosions of fireworks from outlying villages created colorful spectacles on the horizon, Draco was ringing in his New Year in a wash of pain and remorse. The foyer was littered with discarded clothes and shoes, and they used their Death Eater robes as blankets to lay on. The masks lay within reach.  </p>
<p>When the body atop him gave one final grunt and stopped moving, Draco basked in the agony that tore through him. The pain that he deserved and wasn’t ready to give up. He stared up at the elegant ceiling through pools of unshed tears. “Again.” </p>
<p>Rabastan favored him with an amused look. “I need to-”</p>
<p>“Get your potion. And go <em>again</em>.” </p>
<p>A hand snaked down between their bodies for a few seconds before drawing back up, fingers coated in a sticky red. The older Death Eater rubbed the digits together, looking between them and the broken boy a few times. “As you wish.” </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>